


Crashing

by Slumber



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-26
Updated: 2006-06-26
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23677684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/pseuds/Slumber
Summary: Justin had never been very good at remembering.
Relationships: Terry Boot/Justin Finch-Fletchley
Kudos: 1





	Crashing

**Author's Note:**

> For the [](http://fanfic100.livejournal.com/profile)[**fanfic100**](http://fanfic100.livejournal.com/) prompt **Not enough** and dedicated to [](http://siobhanohare.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://siobhanohare.livejournal.com/)**siobhanohare** , for whom I began writing this as a Valentine's Day present way back in 2005. :| Slightly edited from the version I originally posted. There's a companion piece but I've given up hope on that for the night. :|

_Remember the summer of 2000?_ he used to ask, and you’d never know what he was talking about until he would remind you that that had been the summer of Anthony Goldstein and Hannah Abbott’s wedding, which took place on the Quidditch pitch of Hogwarts, and then you’d remember. _Anthony gave such a boring speech during the exchange of vows, of how he and Hannah grew close because of prefect duties,_ you’d say, and he’d remind you of how he had to nudge you awake because you’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, in the middle of Anthony’s narration of the time they’d both started discussing career options in the second floor by the portrait of Merlin As A Young Boy.

 _Remember what happened an hour after the wedding?_ he’d ask, and you’d shake your head ruefully, clueless, until he would start talking about that incident with Hannah’s father toasting to the newly wedded couple, and then you’d remember. _He was practically threatening Anthony with death if he so much as thought that Hannah wasn’t happy,_ you’d exclaim, and he’d chuckle and tell you of how you’d rolled your eyes and muttered something about marriage and heterosexuals.

 _Remember?_ he’d ask, and you wouldn’t unless he told you what happened first. You never remembered things linearly, unlike him—give him a date and a year and he’d know what you were talking about, perhaps even what sort of tea he’d had that afternoon—you merely kept your life stored in a stream of memories, arranged almost on a whim, if at all, never knowing which happened first and when and before which other memory, only drawing upon them randomly or when prompted.

You remember the wedding, though, because weddings made you feel uncomfortably lonely, and emotions like that were rarely felt so acutely in your life—they’d developed into a dull sort of ache that you found easy to ignore, given the proper distraction—that it was difficult to forget it ever happened. You remember being placed in the Singles Table, with him and a couple of other classmates, and you remember stealing longing glances at the Dating Heteros Table a couple of feet away, where Zacharias had his arm around Hermione Granger. You remember drinking far too much champagne, eventually striking up a mostly one-sided conversation with him about what sort of chocolate should best be licked off a person and whether or not one should drink champagne while doing so.

 _It’s bubbly,_ you’d declared by means of an explanation, and he’d chuckled and pointed out that chocolate, on the other hand, is sticky-sweet, and it had made so much sense back then, perhaps because you were already more drunk than was good for you, that you had pronounced him a genius for his brilliant insight and consequently asked him to marry you please.

You hardly remember that bit, but he told you about it sometimes, enough so that it almost felt like your memory instead of his, but you did remember having to stay behind after, too drunk to Apparate or Floo or even walk the distance to stay over at an inn in Hogsmeade. You don’t remember Hannah asking him to look after you, if it was fine with him, and you don’t remember him agreeing, or asking Professor McGonagall for permission, but you remember leaning on his shoulder as he guided you to an empty room to spend the night. You don’t remember how long he made you stay up so you don’t get a hangover the next day, but you remember how he finally tucked you in as the moonlight slipped through the window curtains. You don’t remember asking him to stay with you, but you remember waking up snuggled beside him, and you remember how that made you smile a little.

He’d tutored you in Arithmancy, you were never sure when—fifth year, perhaps—and he’d always been patient and quiet and he usually made you smile a little, when you’d playfully nudge at his leg and he’d turn an adorable shade of pink, or when you’d rest your chin on his shoulder while you looked over his notes, falling asleep after a while and waking up to his exasperation. You’d tell him he was cute when flustered, and he’d be even more flustered and you were always secretly pleased because he _was_ cute and adorably easy to distract. You loved making him giggle, because he was usually so serious otherwise and smiling suited him a whole lot, you thought.

There were a few strong memories when it came to him, you realise, like when you read his palm over a cup of coffee one autumn afternoon—unless it was summer, or when you woke up to the smell of tea the morning after you’d first stayed the night—but then again, you always woke up to the smell of tea when he was around. You’d smile drowsily and he’d blush; you’d pull him near and the tea grew cold and neither of you would care very much.

You remember him even in the instances when he wasn’t there. The first thing you’d thought to yourself upon waking up one day, before you’d thought to ask why your head hurt like hell or why there was a foul taste in your mouth, was why you didn’t smell any tea. The tousled blond head beside you began to stir, and then you remembered. You’d gone out clubbing after receiving an invitation to another wedding, drinking shot after shot of vodka and rum and coke and bubbly, stupid champagne, which you were sure to drink plenty of in a couple months’ time again, and dancing and spinning and dancing and dancing and forgetting. Maybe you threw up after, maybe you didn’t, you didn’t know and you didn’t care, but you went home with Tousled Blond, who blinked annoyingly ungreen eyes at you as he asked you who Zach was.

There was the time you caught him asleep on his bed, a half-read book in hand, glasses still on his face, and a cup of cold tea by the bedside. You saw a lot of that often, you realise, and you don’t know whether his memories included the sheepish, apologetic grin you always wore when he’d wake up or the stink that hung around your clothes you always wished you’d washed clean, but the blank half-smile he always wore after you’d kiss him good morning never left your mind, even when after a while the blankness began to be tinged with tired lines and a hint of emptiness.

It’s a curse, your weak memory, and you wonder if there are other parts of him that have slipped through the cracks of your mind. How did he smile when you teased him, what shade of pink did his cheeks become when you whispered vulgarities in his ear? You lie in bed and wonder if you’re lying on your side or his, and you feel it, the fading away of years, the loss of memories; even as you close your eyes he begins to disappear into the dark, and you wish you hadn’t let him leave, that you’d had the courage and foresight to ask him to stay.

At least that way, you think, you’d live your memories everyday and didn’t have to rely only on what’s been left behind.


End file.
